“O Jesus! O merciful Jesus!” escaped her lips in a stifled moan.
Yanek rose, bent out of the window, and said, as though he had perceived her:
“Who is there?”
In mortal alarm, she held her breath. Her heart stopped beating, she was paralysed with a sort of sacred terror. Her soul, as it were, fluttered in her throat, as it fluctuated in the throes of suspense—and rapturous disquiet!
But Yanek saw nothing save the fence. He shut the window, undressed quickly, and put out the light.
Then the night fell upon her. She still remained there a long time, gloating upon the blackness of the silent window. The chill of the darkness struck through her, sprinkling its silver dew over her hot desires, quenching the ardour in her blood, and shedding over her a sense of unutterable happiness! A sweetly solemn calm pervaded her soul—the calm of the flowers which dream before sunrise—and she burst forth into a wordless prayer of bliss—the marvellous sweetness of that ecstasy which the mind’s unsullied dreams bring forth—unspeakable joy like that of a spring day which dawns—and with it came glad tears in big beads—beads from the rosary of thanksgiving offered to the Lord!
III
“Pray, Hanka, may I go home?” Yuzka entreated, laying her head down upon the pew-seat.
“Aye, do: run about everywhere like a silly calf!” said Hanka, rebuking her, and looking up from her rosary.
“But I feel so faint, so weary!”
“Do not be so restless: it will be over soon.”
His Reverence was just ending a low Mass for Boryna’s soul, which the family had retained for the octave of his death.
All his nearest relations sat in the side-pews. Yagna and her mother alone were kneeling in front of the altar. Somewhere in the choir, Agata was pattering prayers aloud.
The church, cool and quiet, was dark, except for one streak of light that shot in through the open door, and lit up the place as far as the pulpit.
Michael, the organist’s pupil, served Mass, jingling the tiny bells very loud, as usual, and also as usual continually turning his head about after the swallows which were darting in and out of the place.
The priest having ended Mass, they all went out to the churchyard; but as they were going past the belfry, Ambrose called them.
“His Reverence wishes to speak to you.”
And he came up almost at once, with his breviary under his arm, and wiping his bald crown. Having welcomed them kindly, he said:
“My friends, I want to say how well you have acted in having a Mass said for the deceased: it will help his soul towards its eternal rest. It will, I assure you.”
He then took snuff, sneezed violently, and asked them if they intended dividing the property that day. And, on receiving the answer that this was the date after the funeral on which the division was usual, he continued:
“Then I may say a few words about it to you. In dividing the property, remember to do all things by common consent, and to act justly. Let me hear of no quarrels, no dissensions. If Boryna knew that you tore—as wolves tear a sheep—that estate to the prosperity of which he gave his whole life, he would turn in his grave. Moreover, God forbid that ye wrong any one of the orphans! Yuzka is but a simple child as yet; Gregory is far away. Let each have his own, even to the uttermost kopek!—Also, when making the division, have a care to respect his known will. His soul, peradventure, sees you at this very moment! … As I am always telling you in my sermons, concord is the great thing—it upholds all in the world: naught was ever done with discord—naught but sin and the transgression of God’s law.—Further, ye should not forget the church. He was always liberal, and neither for lights nor for Masses, nor for any other need, did he ever grudge his money. Wherefore did God bless the work of his hands.”
He continued for some time in this strain. They embraced his knees with grateful thanks. Yuzka, weeping loudly, fell on her knees to kiss his hand. He took her to his bosom, kissed her on the crown of her head, and said soothingly:
“To weep is foolish, little one: the orphan is God’s especial care.”
Hanka, deeply touched, whispered: “Her own father could not have been more loving.” He was very much moved himself, for he hastily brushed a tear away, offered snuff to the blacksmith, and changed the conversation.
“Well, are ye coming to terms with the Squire?”
“We are; five of us go to the Manor this very day.”
“God be praised! I will say a Mass to that intention on my own account.”
“I think the village ought to have a Votive Mass sung with the greatest solemnity. What! Does not each of us get a new farm—as it were for nothing?”
“You are right, Michael. And I have said a good word for you to the Squire.—Now, go your ways, and remember: Concord and justice!”
“And—hist, Michael!” he called after the smith, who was leaving; “come ye round later to see about my curricle: the right spring is bent and grazes the axletree.”
“Oh, the bulky priest of Laznov has weighed it down; ’tis very like.”
And so they all went to Boryna’s, Yagna the last, going with her mother, who could scarcely drag herself along.
It being a workday, there were but few people on the millpond road: only a few children playing about. Though early in the morning, the sun was hot, but agreeably tempered by the wind, which blew hard enough to make the orchards toss their branches about, laden with ripe red cherries, and the corn beat against the fences in boisterous waves.
The huts stood open, and their gates as well; the bedding lay spread upon the hedgerows, and everybody was out in the fields.
